Sleeping With Ghosts
by Kalimac
Summary: Pintel and Ragetti seem like your average albeit slightly incompetent pirates. But we all know there's more to them than that. Chapter 5: The twosome meet, and we find out how Ragetti learnt to fight...
1. Comfort Zone

_**Author's Note:** This is, in all respects, the only story I have ever written that has been pre-planned in anything other than rough outline. Even my GCSE essays were scruffily worked out at the top of the page before I launched into a metaphorical journey with no idea of where I was actually going._

_Anyway, this story was actually spawned from my constant listening of the fabulous Placebo album of the same name (Sleeping With Ghosts, if you have an incredibly short attention span), and each chapter has a themed song which I will write out at the beginning of the chapter to give a sort of feeling (apart from with purely instrumental tracks.)_

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Pirates of the Caribbean- that is the property of the anthromorphic mouse. The song lyrics are not mine either, but are performed by Placebo, and owned by their respective record company. No copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

_

* * *

Since we're feeling so anaesthetised  
In our comfort zone  
Reminds me of the second time  
That I followed you home  
We're running out of alibi's  
On the second of May  
Reminds me of the summertime  
On this winter's day._

See you at the bitter end  
See you at the bitter end.

Every step we took that synchronised  
Every broken bone  
Reminds me of the second time  
That I followed you home  
You showered me with lullabies  
Had you walking away  
Reminds me that it's killing time  
On this fateful day.

See you at the bitter end  
See you at the bitter end.

From the time we intercepted  
Feels a lot like suicide  
Slow and sad, getting sadder  
Arise a sitting mine  
See you at the bitter end.

I love to see you run around  
And I can see you now  
Running to me  
Arms wide out  
See you at the bitter end  
Reach inside  
Come on just gotta reach inside  
Heard your cry  
Six months time  
Six months time  
Prepare the end  
See you at the bitter end

_-The Bitter End_

* * *

**Chapter One: Comfort Zone**

_Dong. Dong. Dong._

The dull sound of a large bell filtered into Ragetti's subconscious. Well, it did not so much filter as forcibly charge its way through, completely oblivious to the dreams it was knocking aside in its haste to reach the forefront of the pirate's mind.

_Dong. Dong. Dong._

Ragetti groaned and rolled over, his hammock swinging dangerously. The sound was almost there, and it was disturbing him. He felt very warm and comfortable, and had absolutely no intention whatsoever of getting up. Getting up would involve facing the cold, dusky morning and an entire day of scrubbing decks, cleaning canons, twisting ropes and a whole host of other chores that were not particularly appealing at any moment in time, least of all first thing in the morning.

_Dong. Dong. Dong._

The other crewmembers were rousing themselves, and he heard a few shuffling about. One pirate — probably Grapple, he was always up early— was actually heard going up the stairs and out the door onto the deck. Ragetti kept his eyes firmly shut, hoping that this was just an unpleasant dream and soon it would shift into something ridiculously abstract like… like being chased by a giant shark wearing Captain Sparrow's hat.

_Dong. Dong. Dong._

The monotonous rhythm of the bell was boring so far into Ragetti's mind that he decided the best course of action was to give up. He sat up abruptly and his hammock swung wildly; to avoid being deposited unceremoniously on the wooden floor Ragetti performed an unnatural looking twist and landed on all fours like a cat.

"Don' know how ye can do that so early on," a bleary-eyed Twigg mumbled as Ragetti straightened up, pushed past him to get to the door. Ragetti shrugged self-consciously and pulled his green jacket over his thin shoulders. The skinny man was dressed in an odd collection of garments, featuring a baggy shirt that might once have been maroon but was so faded and darned it was difficult to tell, a jacket that may have been stylish a few years ago and if it were in better condition and some torn breeches that were too short for his lanky legs. Like most pirates on the ship, he habitually went barefoot unless they were going ashore. Ragetti's most distinguishing feature was the wooden eye that was fitted awkwardly into his empty right-socket.

Ragetti watched the other pirates dressing, leaving the room and fumbling about with a detached air; he cared very little for any of these men. They were just there, part of his life but apart from it. Sighing and rubbing his wooden eye Ragetti turned to rouse his one and only friend. Pintel was a very deep sleeper and never heard the bell, so it was always up to Ragetti to wake him. Nobody else on the ship would care enough to try it.

"Pint? Pint, c'mon, we gotta move." Ragetti shook his friend's broad shoulder. Pintel groaned and moved to smack the other pirate's hand away, but Ragetti persisted. "C'mon, Pint! Ever'one else is gone!"

"Wha's new?" grumbled Pintel, sitting up and fixing Ragetti with a bleary stare. The other pirate was short and thickset, with broad shoulders and bowed legs. He was in his mid-thirties, but his thinning grey hair and lined face make him look so much older. He had a broad friendly grin, and sharp, twinkling eyes that creased at the corners when he laughed. Ragetti knew he could be gruff and angry, but he also knew that his friend was ultimately good-natured.

When Pintel had managed to wake up enough to work out how to place his feet in order to walk, the pair of misfits made their way up on deck, where everything was the usual flurry of activity before it settled down into something resembling order and routine. As soon as the two stood on deck the First Mate, Barbossa, came striding up to them with two mops and a bucket. Pintel shut his eyes and tipped his head back as though sending up a silent prayer (or possibly a curse). Ragetti cocked his head on one side and wrinkled his long nose; mopping and scrubbing was their usual chore and sometimes the tall pirate swore that he mopped the wooden decks in his sleep as well. The First Mate, though slightly grizzled in appearance, had an air of superiority about him, and his silver tongue was famed throughout the Caribbean.

"Ready fer yer mornin' stint, lads?" he asked, a sneer pulling at the side of his face, rolling his R's perhaps even more than usual.

Wordlessly, as was their usual way of keeping out of trouble, the two grabbed their mops and Pintel hauled up the bucket, deliberately slopping the water across the deck by way of protest. Together they made their way to the hold, where they usually began the mopping of the entire ship in order to keep out of the way. Had it been almost any other person on board Pintel would probably have had some sarcastic comeback on the tip of his tongue, but with Barbossa the best way around a problem was to keep silent and pretend there wasn't one.

"'E's gonna give ye hell fer spillin' that water," Ragetti said over his shoulder as he began at one side of the hold and worked backwards.

"Bugger it," Pintel growled back, not looking up from where he was mopping against the opposite bulkhead. "Bastard's always lookin' fer a chance ter give me hell."

Ragetti had to admit that this was true. The politics of the _Black Pearl_ were highly fragile, but in his mind it was fairly simple: most the crew either did not like or did not care about Pintel and Ragetti, seeing them as a hindrance unless you could get them to do work the rest of the crew did not want to do. The Bo'sun hated Ragetti even more so than the rest of the crew did, and had beaten him violently on more than one occasion, despite the rules of the _Pearl _ruling against this — he was not a power to be reckoned with, and always got away with it. Barbossa held a grudge against Pintel for reasons unbeknownst to anybody, and was generally going out of his way in order to blame Pintel for something gone wrong on the ship, even if said pirate had been doing something entirely different at the point. Jack Sparrow, their fearless (and sometimes downright frightening) captain, was above the politics in that he treated each crewmember the same, but Barbossa envied him, and the Bo'sun was exasperated by him. Pintel was never fond of Jack Sparrow for various reasons, and Ragetti thought it was mainly because Pintel was a very practical, down-to-earth person and Jack Sparrow was of an entirely different calibre.

For his part, Ragetti kept away from everyone but Pintel, kept his head down and did as he was told. Life was easier that way.

"Watch it, Rags!" Pintel's gruff voice cut into Ragetti's musings, but it was too late. Ragetti had been mopping backwards, lost in thought, and had failed to notice the wooden pail behind him. His ankle caught the rim and he staggered back, tipping the bucket up and sending water cascading over the floor like a wave in a storm. His bare feet couldn't grip the slippery wood and his legs shot out from underneath him. The young pirate went down in a confusion of flailing arms and legs and landed with a pained yelp.

There was a pause, and Pintel counted down mentally. _Three… two… one…_

"Me eye!" Ragetti launched himself across the sodden floor in an attempt to catch his wayward prosthetic, but his hampered vision meant that he launched himself in the wrong direction. Pintel, thinking his friend had seen his eye, followed suit. He had barely taken two steps when he stood on something small, round and hard. As soon as the object took his weight it rolled forwards and Pintel was pitched back. He stumbled a few steps back to where he had begun, then slipped on the puddle of water and before he knew what had happened he was sitting splay-legged against the bulkhead with stars bursting in front of his eyes.

"Me eye!" Ragetti cried again, and pounced, trapping the wooden ball in his long-fingered hands. With a triumphant grin, he popped it back in his socket.

There was a long silence when the two inept pirates gazed around at the hold. Puddles rippled innocently across the wooden floor, with the pail upturned in the middle of it. The two mops lay where they had fallen, and the whole thing looked even worse than when they had started off.

Pintel groaned and rubbed his temples furiously. This was not what he needed this early in the morning. In fact, he could list a whole host of things he would rather be doing this early in the morning. One: sleeping. Two: eating…

"Well…" Ragetti began nervously. "L-l-looks like w-we're both fer Hell now."

Pintel threw a mop at him.

* * *

Later in the day the mis-matching pair were sitting with their backs against the main mast and were twisting ropes. Ragetti was humming some hapless sea-shanty, which seemed entirely out of place with the sun burning down on their backs and their hands burning and bleeding from the rough yarn of the ropes. Pintel listened to the humming, trying to discern some tune in it, and also tried to ignore the blistering heat on his balding scalp.

They had managed to tidy up the hold enough to escape punishment, though the way the Bo'sun's dark lips had curled signalled that their job had not been satisfactory. There was no doubt that Barbossa would hear of it soon enough. But for now that problem had been pushed to the back of Pintel's mind and he concentrated firmly on the task at hand. His palms were already raw and he saw that Ragetti had smeared blood on his face where he had reached up to rub his eye. Ragetti looked up and saw Pintel watching him; the younger pirate frowned and tried to rub the blood off of his cheek, but succeeded in rubbing only more blood over it. Pintel rolled his eyes but laughed.

"C'mere, yeh stupid dolt." He quickly untied his grey neckerchief and wiped the red stain away from Ragetti's sunken cheek. "There y'are. Don' rub yeh damned eye, 'specially when yer 'ands are bleedin'. An' you can bugger off, an' all!" he added to the monkey sitting nearby watching them. The small animal could have been called adorable by some, but there was a malicious glint in its eyes that hinted to trouble.

"I 'ate that monkey," Ragetti muttered as he hunched over, his head tilted to one side in order to get a good look at the ropes. "'E's always up ter no good."

"Most of us are always up ter no good." Pintel said, shifting over to try and get out of the burning sun but to no avail. "Jus' that monkey's always up ter no good where we're concerned."

Ragetti sighed and squinted skywards, shading his eyes with a long-fingered, bloodstained hand. "Seems like no one on this 'ere ship likes us, 'ey Pint?"

Pintel grinned, his eyes sparkling. "So what? We gets along fine wifout 'em far 's I'm concerned."

* * *

_For a long, long time Pintel had got along fine without anybody whatsoever. At the tender age of five years he had found himself on the streets, hunkered in corners at night, begging, picking pockets, stealing, anything to keep himself alive. For six years he had lived that life, needing no friends, needing no family. Sometimes he dreamt of faces, and he came to realise that they were his only remaining memories of his lost parents, and he wondered often what had happened to them. In the early mornings, before the streets of Calais had begun to swarm and the only movement were of early fishermen and alley cats, Pintel had lain in doorways frowning up at the dusky sky, trying to remember the faces._

_From what his memory could drag up, he looked most like his mother: heftily built with a round, somewhat stern face. He vaguely remembered her having a temper, and he wondered whether he had liked the woman. He could remember nothing of his father's personality, but knew that he had inherited the man's broad, friendly grin. It was when he had fixed these few details firmly in his mind that he vowed to forget about his family. He did not need them; he did not need their characters or their appearances. He was himself, and himself was all he needed. He did not even know his first name, just knew the name of his family. Pintel: a French name, though fairly uncommon, which he had found out mainly from gossiping women on market-day, who concerned themselves more with the families of others than their own. _

_The port of Calais was a goldmine for the young boy, and he managed to pilfer and raid many unattended ships and boats for food or money. Sometimes a sailor would talk to him, tell him stories. The stories were generally of pirates, of heartless, evil bastards who lived purely for their own gain and did not care who or what they hurt and destroyed in the process of getting it. Pintel wondered whether there was another side to the story, but he never asked. He held his tongue and soon dropped back to looking and listening. He learnt that a young boy who did not draw attention to himself and looked busy was generally ignored, and he could learn much in this way. He got himself a job with an Englishman, helping to dock boats, tie them up and keep them safe for their captain if he did not have enough crew. In the long hours of waiting the man helped Pintel with his fractured English, and by the time he was ten he was speaking fluently- or at least as fluently as most sailors. _

_When he was eleven, Pintel grew restless of Calais, and yearned for travel. He had spent too long listening to tales and rumours of other lands, and decided to leave. He asked many sailors whether he could tag along, but they all told him no. Some said it more politely than others, but the sentiment was all the same: some ragamuffin street-rat would only get under their feet. Eventually, however, when Pintel was contemplating stowing away in the next boat to leave, a strange man came and asked him his name. Surprised and more than a little suspicious, Pintel gave it to him._

_"How would ye like ter join me crew then, Master Pintel?" he had asked in a growling voice. Pintel stared at him for a few moments, not entirely comprehending. Very few sailors took anybody younger than sixteen, unless they were relatives. But Pintel knew that he looked older than he actually was, and he decided this time to play his luck. He grinned and snapped a salute. _

_"Aye, sir!"_

_"Good," the man grunted, and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "Get on the ship then. Ye got any stuff?" Pintel shook his head. "Right. Off with ye."_

_Unable to believe his luck, and with no small amount of trepidation, Pintel had sailed off with the man who later introduced himself as Captain Sarendo. Sarendo taught Pintel everything he needed to know about ships and the young boy had the time of his life. The only thing that put a damper on his new style of living was his complete inability to make friends. At first, Pintel was bothered by his social incapacity, and tried desperately to fit in; his efforts were thrown back in his face, however, by the teasing and cruel laughter of the rest of the crew. _

_Pintel left Sarendo and the crew after two years of taunting. He didn't struggle getting himself onto another ship though; he was a fast learner and Sarendo had taught him well. Soon he found himself sailing on "Sun Arise", a merchant vessel. The crew was larger on that ship, and he found it easy to drift away by himself without drawing attention to his seclusion. One man, a little older than he, attempted conversation once, but by then Pintel was so close that he gave up and left. After that episode Pintel lay awake at night, wondering what was wrong with him and whether he would ever have a friend. 'You're getting along fine without anyone!' he told himself firmly, but a small voice at the back of his mind persisted: 'you're lonely. You're so lonely it hurts.' It was true; it did hurt. It was a constant ache in his chest, but he was used to it, and ignored it. That was the best way. _

* * *

Pintel frowned to himself, stopping the rhythm of his work and studying the patterns the ropes made, the criss-crossing, twisting plait of the fibres, strengthening and tightening as they were bound together. Had he become stronger since he had met Ragetti? He wasn't sure. He had always been brave, in a fashion; in battle he had never been scared, but he had always backed down against authority, and was always unsure about standing up for himself. Thinking about it, Pintel supposed he was a coward, really.

But if someone tried to bully Ragetti, or hurt him, Pintel would be there to stand up for him, to tell them to leave his mate alone. The crew would laugh then, tell Pintel that there was no way he was pirate material: not him, and not his scrawny shadow. But it was worth it, because since he had met Ragetti that ache in his chest had vanished.

* * *

_He had been twenty-one when he first met Ragetti, and the lad had been sixteen. He had not been very tall then, but skinny, bordering on gaunt, with a mop of dirty blonde hair and a hapless grin. Pintel remembered when he had first come aboard the Creeping Giant, the ridiculously named schooner; their captain, a tall, weedy man with a penchant for large hats, had ordered Pintel to show the lad the ropes. _

_It had been an awful beginning: Ragetti had fumbled and messed up, he had forgotten things and had a helpless, pleading expression almost permanently printed on his face. Pintel had snapped at him a few times when his patience had finally broken, but the tirade of apologies that came forth when he did irritated him even more than the young man's slip-ups. _

_"Sorry, Pintel, sorry…" he would mumble, ducking his head and peering up at him through his unruly fringe, looking very much like a puppy called for a beating. Pintel would roll his eyes and tell him gruffly not to worry, and proceed to show him again. _

_When they had pulled into a port somewhere, Ragetti had been pop-eyed over the seductive ladies who mingled with the crew in most bars. Pintel had then been very popular with them: he had been stockily built, but not as broad as he ended up, with thick black hair and a neatly trimmed black beard. His blue eyes had a wicked glint in them, and his large smile made the women giggle and simper. Ragetti was always surprised by how well Pintel socialised with the women when his friend struggled to communicate with the rest of the crew. Some of the women had been drawn to Ragetti's obvious shyness and vulnerability, but had soon become bored of him and his nervous stuttering and fidgeting. _

_Soon Pintel and Ragetti were functioning together. Ragetti did not make as many mistakes, and any he did make Pintel would counter almost immediately. They did all of their work together, even though Ragetti was now perfectly capable of working alone. However, it wasn't until one evening that Pintel thought anything unusual was happening._

_"Pint?"_

_"What, Rags?" _

_There was a pause as the young man twisted his hands in his lap, staring out across the evening sky. The only sound for a moment was that of the schooner skimming through the ocean's waters. _

_"We're friends, right, Pint?"_

_Pintel wasn't sure how to answer that. "I dunno, Rags."_

_"Well… I fink yer my friend, Pint, but am I your friend?"_

_"Like I said, Rags, I dunno. Never 'ad a friend, so 'ow am I s'posed ter know?"_

_Ragetti stared at him, tugging absently at one of the golden rings in his ears. "Never, Pint?"_

_"Never, Rags."_

_"Oh." There was another pause, this one longer than the first. Then Ragetti smiled. "Well, I fink I'm yer friend, Pint."_

_"Awright."_

_Pintel had sounded off-hand, almost un-caring, but when Ragetti looked away, he smiled._

* * *

"What yer smilin' at, Pint?"

"Eh?" Reality smacked Pintel very hard in the face, and it took all of his self-control not to jerk backwards when it did.

"Yer smilin' at nuffin, Pinters. How come?"

"Why not?" Pintel replied, raising his eyebrows. "You don' need a reason ter smile, Rags, so nor do I."

Ragetti, true to form, broke out in a lop-sided grin.

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_

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I've spent a while working out and toying with the back-stories of our favourite pirates, but I'm not sure whether there are any major plot-holes in there yet. I hope I did a decent enough job with it, though they will probably be re-written and re-written until they are barely recognisable._

_Anyway, please read and review, it would be so appreciated! _


	2. Kiss the Floor

_**Author's Note:** Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed; I'm really glad I'm doing okay so far. You may notice that Pintel and Ragetti end up being... well, romanticised in this story. Not in the slash sense (though that is a possibility I've not ruled out) but following the vein of turning pirates into bad-guys-who-weren't-that-bad-really-when-you-get-right-down-to-it. I apologise to those who prefer the straight approach to pirates. _

_**Disclaimer:** As before. Disney are gits, because they own them, I don't, and they're not selling. Bah. The song-lyrics aren't mine either, but are performed by Placebo and owned by their respective record company._

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I hold an image of the ashtray girl  
As the cigarette burns on my chest  
I wrote a poem that described her world  
That put my friendship to the test  
And late at night  
Whilst on all fours  
She used to watch me kiss the floor  
What's wrong with this picture?  
What's wrong with this picture?_

Farewell the ashtray girl  
Forbidden snowflake  
Beware this troubled world  
Watch out for earthquakes  
Goodbye to open sores  
To broken semaphore  
We know we miss her  
We miss her picture

Farewell the ashtray girl  
Angelic fruitcake  
Beware this troubled world  
Control your intake  
Goodbye to open sores  
Goodbye and furthermore  
We know we miss her  
We miss her picture

Hang on  
Though we try  
It's gone  
Hang on  
Though we try  
It's gone

Sometimes it's faded  
Disintegrated  
For fear of growing old  
Sometimes it's faded  
Assassinated  
For fear of growing old  
Can't stop growing old...

_-This Picture_

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**Chapter Two: Kiss the Floor**

Pintel found himself wondering whether at any time in his life Jack Sparrow had ever had any control over his arm gestures. How many people had been concussed or scarred for life by the flailing limbs? Would one of those poor souls end up being him? Was it perhaps the basis of Jack's plot to take over the world? Not that Pintel thought that Jack Sparrow planned to take over the world. That was Ragetti's theory, and in the middle of the night perched up on the fore when you had forgotten what it was like to have toes, the idea seemed fairly plausible.

As it was, nobody was really in danger from Jack's arms at the moment because he was standing at the top of the stairs and the crew were gathered at the bottom on the main deck, listening to what the captain was telling them. Pintel had stopped listening about ten minutes ago, on the basis that he'd probably pick it up from somebody else. Ragetti was standing by his shoulder and was staring at Jack with a vacant expression, his right eye drifting lazily inwards, giving him an even more clueless look that usual. He seemed lost in thought, and Pintel wondered whether it had anything to do with world domination. Perhaps Ragetti was plotting to do it before Jack. The idea made Pintel's mind twist, trying to fit itself into reality, but eventually gave up before it hurt itself.

"Those two!"

"Yah, I vote for them two!"

"An' me!"

Pintel blinked, and found himself under close scrutiny of the rest of the crew. He felt Ragetti shrink and cower beside him; being the centre of attention was, they agreed, a Very Bad Thing. He tried an innocent smile, but the gazes were not averted.

"Well," Jack's voice rolled over the heads' of the crew, "Thankyeh, Masters Pintel an' Ragetti, fer volunteerin' ter watch the _Pearl_." A gold-laden smile flashed in their direction.

Pintel blinked again. "Wot?"

"'s very gracious of you gennelmen, I mus' say." Jack's smile didn't waver, and Pintel got the feeling that he did not like what he was being told. "Not many people'd give up a night on land so's ever'one else can have 'emselves a merry time, eh?"

Slowly realisation filtered into Pintel's mind, and smacked it with a heavy blunt object. Oh, bloody _hell._

It was only a matter of minutes before Pintel and Ragetti were left standing morosely on deck watching their crew row out of sight, their illustrious captain standing in the front boat with his arms flung wide as though awaiting an embrace. The crew had left them with parting gifts of sneers, sarcastic remarks, withering glares and one consolidating (and patronising) look from Bootstrap Bill. The _Pearl _seemed very empty and quiet when the crew were gone, and even the creaking deck seemed to taunt them: _Oh dear, what have you got into now? What are you going to miss? What a long, long night it's going to be... _

"Hell!" It was the only word Pintel could think of, which was fairly disappointing because, if there was one thing you learnt from being a pirate, it was just how creative swearing could be.

"Ah, ne' mind, Pint," Ragetti said. "We'll go next time, eh?" The words of comfort were lost on Pintel. It was hard to be comforted by someone fishing splinters out of his own eye-socket.

"Next time..." he growled, more to himself than to Ragetti. He leant on the side of the ship staring out at the small specks of the rowboats. "Ruddy _next time_. I'm ready ter bet the rest of me bloody hair that _next time _it'll be us stayin' behind again."

Ragetti watched his friend uncertainly; Pintel was obviously not in a particularly good mood, and there was no knowing what would cause his temper to snap when he was like this. Ragetti wasn't particularly thrilled about being left behind either, but as far as he could see (which, admittedly, wasn't particularly far), the situation was in front of them and they just had to put up with it.

"Well, 's not as though we had any choice, 'ey?" he tried, coming to stand by the other pirate. He pushed his eye into the socket as he spoke, trying to wedge it in as firmly as possible.

"Wotever 'appened ter democratic votes, an' all that?" Pintel asked, although it was obvious that Ragetti didn't know.

"I dunno, Pint. I guess it were kinda democratic. I mean, it were most o' the crew who voted fer us ter stay be'ind, y'know?"

Pintel sighed, and all the annoyance seemed to leave him. "Jus' feel... well, I jus' wish they'd bloody well pick on someone else fer a while."

"I hear ye, mate."

There was silence for a while. Ragetti looked despondent, his chin resting on his arms. Pintel frowned, thoughts chasing each other through his head: _Just because we ain't goin' ashore, don't mean we can't 'ave no fun, right? I mean… our orders were to watch over the Pearl. The Pearl's full o' food an' drink an' stuff, an' that's two out o' three o' the things yeh'd get at the port. We gots the ship ter ourselves, ain't no one ter stop us. Though... Cap'n Sparrow knows that rum drop fer drop, an' they're bound ter notice stuff missin'... But we're always getting' blamed fer stuff we didn' do, so what's the difference in getting' blamed fer stuff we did do? Maybe just a little. Cap'n Sparrow knew 'e left two blokes on their own wiv all this stuff. We're pirates, right? Since when are we trustworthy?_

_Right._

"Raggers, my lad, I've got an idea!"

Ragetti glanced up. "If it's any fin' ter do wiv sneakin' ashore I ain't doin' it," he said flatly. "Too much trouble, an' knowin' our luck some bastard'll blast the _Pearl _ter smithereens when we're gone."

"Nah, I ain't suggestin' we leave," Pintel said, straightening up and making his tone more certain; something he'd learnt about Ragetti was that if your tone of voice said it all then he didn't bother with listening to the words. "I'm suggestin' we do the best we can wiv what we've got 'ere."

"What d'yeh mean, Pint?" Ragetti wrinkled his nose, looking confused. Pintel sighed; sometimes Ragetti was remarkably slow on the uptake.

"I mean, Rags, that we're on this ship on our own, with all o' this food an' drink, and no Barbossa, Bo'sun, Ketchum or no one ter give us hell fer takin' it."

"Bu'... bu' Pint, they ain't gonna be best pleased if we take all th' food!"

"I ain't sayin' we take all of it, mate. I don' think even you could eat all o' the food on this ship, hollow inside though yeh are." This was a commonly held opinion on board the _Pearl: _Ragetti was as skinny as a rake, yet he ate possibly more than most other crewmembers. Pintel, with his fairly sizeable waist, found this distinctly unfair. "C'mon, we've gotta eat tonight anyway, so why not 'ave a bit of fun with it?"

Ragetti stared at him for a moment, his eye distant as he contemplated the possibilities, then a grin spread across his gaunt face. Pintel grinned back, his blue eyes glinting with the mischievous streak that had failed to leave him in adulthood.

The pair of vagabonds were experienced enough in pillaging and plundering to be able to gather enough food for a feast within a few minutes. They were extra careful to make sure there was as little sign as possible of their raid (besides the obvious fact that there was a lot less food) and Ragetti triumphantly dragged up some prize rum from who-knows where (Pintel didn't dare ask).

Within a few hours it was night. The shadows had crept into the corners, the darkness sweeping over everywhere, engulfing all, wrapping everything in its protective cloak. Anchored away out to sea, the _Pearl _was lost in the shroud of night, its black sails blending seamlessly, giving no hint as to what was going on deep in its bowels.

Deep in those said bowels, two pirates were becoming, for lack of a better phrase, pissed out of their heads. Or, at least, one of the pirates was. Pintel was notoriously difficult to fill with alcohol, something that had become the source of many bets and challenges.

Ragetti, it seemed, was an entirely different matter. He was standing on the rickety table, a half empty bottle of rum in one hand as he swayed dangerously. His eyes were shut and an expression of rapture on his face as he pressed his free hand theatrically to his heart: "Ah, alas fer me love!" he cried, slurring his words slightly. He raised his other arm in a violent, sweeping gesture and narrowly avoided cracking himself on the head with the bottle; he barely kept his balance but recovered with magnificent flourish. "Alas, fer I 'ave losht 'er, losht 'er ter... ter... ter that bloody bastard... bastard wiv 'is bloody rings an' 'is band... band... bandy-anna-thingie... tha's 'er name, yeah... Anna's 'er name... oh, mercy me!"

Pintel just sat back in his chair, content to laugh at his friend's drunken antics, whoop every now and again as Ragetti staggered dangerously close to the edge of the table, and watch everything through the pleasant mist that seemed to have accumulated. This was as close as he really got to being drunk, without consuming the amount of alcohol that would give his stomach the mind to escape through his mouth. Everything seemed... well, wonderful, when he was like this. Yessir, everything was brilliant, he was happy and he was having a laugh. Yeah, Rags was an idiot but hey, that's what made it fun, yeah?

Ragetti had drifted into silence. His arms had dropped to his sides, and the bottle hung limply from one hand. He swayed slightly, stumbled and folded up gently. Pintel thought this hysterical, though his raucous laughter was broken off by the sudden arrival of a lapful of Ragetti, who blinked owlishly up at him.

"'ullo, Pinters."

"Awrigh', Rags?" Why did he get so annoyed with Ragetti? Really?

"Yeah, Pint." Ragetti showed no sign whatsoever of moving. "Yer real comfy, Pint." He grinned up at his friend, radiating drunken idiocy.

"Thanks, Rags. Yer a bony bastard, ye know that?"

"Can't 'elp it!" Ragetti giggled and leant his head against Pintel's chest. "'s nice when the rest of 'em ain't 'ere," he said absently. "Makes me feel better."

Pintel didn't like where this was going. What happened to the drunken laughing and joking? What happened to the hilarious quips that no one could remember the hilarity of the next morning? Why were they not dancing round the deck, tripping over themselves and singing loudly, before finally collapsing of combined exhaustion and giggles?

"Gerroff me, Rags." Pintel shoved the thinner man onto the floor, where he landed with a yelp. He lay there in a heap for a while, blinking and staring at the ceiling as though pondering what had just happened.

"Y'know what, Pint?" Ragetti slurred, still staring at the ceiling and gesturing with one hand (which still held the now empty bottle of rum). "I've been finkin'."

"Did it hurt?" Pintel rocked back on his chair, surveying the crumpled form of his inebriated friend.

"What, the finkin' or what it was about?" Pintel was surprised at Ragetti's perception.

"Either."

"What I'm finkin' about kinda hurt. Used to, I mean. Not really no more." Ragetti frowned; he found it difficult enough to make sense of most things usually, but with his mind blurred from the alcohol it was nearly impossible. Was he making any sense? He wasn't particularly sure, and Pintel was just sitting there staring at the table, which Ragetti didn't think was very helpful.

"Hurt sort of here, I mean," he waved a hand absently over his skinny chest. "I guess it ain't like proper hurtin'..." he trailed off, uncertain of what he was really trying to say. The beginning of a headache was beginning to form; a dull throb was starting up behind his eyes, mixing his thoughts up even more.

"Sure it's like proper hurtin'." Pintel's voice was dull, and he didn't take his eyes off the table. Ragetti frowned up at his friend from where he lay. "I'd go 's far as ter say it's worse'n proper hurtin'. Can deal wiv that."

"Why did yeh hurt, Pint?"

"Lots o' reasons. Mostly 'cause I were lonely, but I didn' realise." Pintel laughed, but it was hollow. "An'... an' there was a girl," he finished lamely.

"Me too."

The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, and Pintel wasn't entirely sure how to deal with it. It wasn't that he wanted to keep secrets from Ragetti; it was just that he didn't want to talk about... well, about certain things, and this conversation had certainly crossed the line of Certain Things.

"It were jus' before I met ye." Ragetti doggedly continued, as Pintel did not seem inclined to say anything. "She were right pretty, she was, an' real sweet."

"Before yeh met me?" Pintel frowned in Ragetti's direction. "Gods, yeh must've been young, mate."

"Sixteen," Ragetti said defensively.

"Exactly, mate."

"That ain't too young—" Ragetti began.

"Ter me it is, mate. Too young ter actually 'ave proper feelin's fer one person, that is."

"Jus' 'cause you never cared fer no one don't mean I'm the same," Ragetti protested. Hurt flashed across Pintel's face, then came the expression Ragetti was all too familiar with: the shutters came down, and all emotion was wiped away. He knew he'd gone too far.

"I'm sorry, Pint," he said, ducking his head, waiting for a verbal rebuke, or to be smacked upside the head, but Pintel's face remained impassive; he only did that when his feelings had really been hurt. Guilt washed over Ragetti and he felt inclined to move over to his friend. "Pint, 'm sorry. I din't mean it like that."

"S'awrigh', Rags. Yer bloody right." There was a long pause, whilst Ragetti waited for Pintel to carry on. "I did care 'bout someone else though. On'y once, an' it were... well, it were years ago."

"When, Pint?" Ragetti's curiosity was peaked, and he was pleased to see that Pintel had decided not to carry on acting as though he didn't care.

"I dunno... it don' matter anymore though. She's dead." He didn't let Ragetti interrupt though, but carried on, staring hard at his feet. "She weren't... well, she weren't pretty or anythin'. She were plain really, bu' she were the mos' beautiful girl I knew." He laughed slightly. "Sounds stupid ter say it now, but I weren't no pirate then, an' it weren't so frowned on ter 'ave feelin's an' stuff. She was called Sophie, an' she worked in a bakery. Never ate somethin' so good as the stuff she made." He laughed again. "I loved this girl, an' I go rememberin' shit like that. Bloody 'ell!"

"I'm sorry, Pint," Ragetti murmured.

"So ye keep sayin'."

"No, I mean... I mean abou' Sophie. How'd she die?"

Pintel looked at him for the first time in a while, his face a mixture of confusion and sadness. "She were killed when a bunch o' pirates attacked the town," he said hollowly. "Bloody ironic, eh?"

"Yeah..." They drifted into silence. After a moment Pintel came and sat on the floor beside Ragetti, pulling his knees up to his chest and crossing his arms on top of them. Ragetti glanced over at him, and saw the calculating look on his friend's face.

"What 'appened to Anna?" Pintel asked quietly.

"I lost 'er." Even the mention of her name brought memories flying back: the way her brown hair bounced around her shoulders, the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed, the way she'd giggle and flick his nose when he pulled a face at her...

"What d'yer mean?" Ragetti couldn't quite trust himself to look at Pintel, so he kept his gaze focused forwards. "Raggers?"

"Some other bastard came along. She liked 'im better. Said... said 'e 'ad more guts, an' she preferred people who weren' like walkin' sticks." That had hurt. That had hurt even more than the betrayal. "She were on'y the same age as me, an' this bastard were at least twenty. I really, really liked 'er, an' she jus' threw it all back in me face..."

Pintel was silent, but he moved closer and slung an arm around Ragetti's shoulders. "Sorry, Rags," he said gently. "She's probably kickin' 'herself now, though." Ragetti snorted. "No, I'm serious, mate. Bet that idiot dropped 'er like an anchor soon's someone else came ter 'is fancy. If she were as sweet as yeh said she'd've 'ad enough sense ter know that yeh'd look after 'er better than anyone wiv muscles where 'is 'eart should be." In spite of himself, Ragetti smiled weakly. He didn't know why people thought Pintel was a heartless sod; deep down he was as soft as anything. _Very _deep down, admittedly.

"Thanks, mate."

"Don' mention it."

There was a long silence as the two pirates sat together on the floor; both lost in their own thoughts and memories. Eventually, Pintel stood up.

"C'mon, let's go fer a walk or summat, make sure there ain't no one sneakin' around on deck or anything'."

"Sure thing, mate. Should get rid o' me headache anyway."

* * *

_

* * *

Whew, that one was tough to write! And yes, I am well aware that Pintel and Ragetti are hardened criminals etc., but I view them like toasted marshmallows: all crispy on the outside, but all soft and gooey on the inside. And twice as nice as normal marshmallows_

_Please leave a review! Arr!_


	3. Bulletproof

_**Author's Note**: This one was written mostly at night, which might explain the style. I struggle horribly with battles, mainly because I have no idea what it would be like. So this is my attempt._

_Translations for the French will be at the bottom of the page. Pointe-a-Pitre is the largest coastal town of Grand-Terre, the largest island of the French settlement Guadeloupe in the Caribbean. Yeah, I'm a Caribbean nerd. Shut up._

_**Disclaimer: **Here mousie… it's just you and me now. C'mere you filthy, mangy… no, no! I didn' mean it, I didn'! _

_Soundtrack: Bulletproof Cupid- Placebo. Instrumental._

* * *

**Chapter Three: Bulletproof**

Noise. Noise everywhere, around him, closing in, close, close, too close, too loud, blocking all, nothing else, no sights to remember, no feeling, no emotion, just noise, endless litanies of sound, clashes of metal, bangs- both distant punctuations and nearby explosions, momentarily drowning all else, and screams, screams surround him, from men, women, pirates…

"DUCK!" He does so. Duck, spin, sword at the ready, attacker has no chance. He falls, then another, and another, each falling and clearing the way for new assaults. It goes on, on, minutes, hours, days… or is it seconds? He doesn't know. Doesn't care. _Survive. _Parry, repost, parry, find the weakness… another man falls, his blue uniform drenched in blood. Doesn't care, no time to look. Parry, step backwards, bad move… _shit! _But it's all right, the man collapses at the hilt of another sword.

"Come on!" Another yell, permeating the cacophony of sound. _Stick together, must stick together… _confusion all around- doesn't matter, the soldiers are close, that's all he needs to know. This one is inept, swinging wildly, erratically… get in under his guard. Move on! Move on!

A rush of air too close to Ragetti makes him spin, his cutlass ready in his hand. The young man behind him realises too late that his plan has failed and he falls. _This wasn' s'posed ter happen, _Ragetti thinks. _They wasn' s'posed ter know we was comin'. _The pirates had met a ready and waiting French navy of Pointe-a-Pitre, rather than the surprise attack they had been ready to launch on the unsuspecting town.

"'ow about this fer a surprise attack?" Pintel yells over his shoulder as Ragetti twists to counter an assailant from his left. "Didn' 'alf surprise me!"

Ragetti grins but can't answer. His opponent is dispatched quickly and he and Pintel stand back-to-back, ready for any more oncoming attacks. They don't have long to wait, they are set-upon quickly, five men for the two pirates. One, two fall before Ragetti, survival first on his mind. A violent gunshot behind him makes his heart freeze for a moment and causes the man before him to stop in his tracks. _Now! His guard's down! _The man's hesitation cost him. Ragetti whirls around, hoping the gunshot had not been for Pintel, but his friend's pistol is in his hand, his sword in the other, blood streaming down his face, a gruesome wound over his left eyebrow. He grins wildly, eyes flashing, blood staining his greying beard. _Demonic_, Ragetti thinks wryly.

A lull in the fighting. Someone shoulders roughly past him, a wild flash of dreadlocks and scars. "Back ter the ship!" Koehler yells roughly, Twigg on his heels, a grubby sack slung over his shoulder. "Get movin'!" They disappear into the mass of bodies, lost in the movement.

"_Pirates!" _They turn together. A flash of a sword, a glint of brown eyes. "_Votre temps est par-dessus!" _The young man raises his blade, hatred twisting his face. Before Ragetti can move, Pintel has levelled his pistol, contempt written all over his features.

"_Ne pas être si condamner impudent, mon garcon." _A bang, the boy crumples, a hole smoking in his skull. "Idiot." There is a yell, and Ragetti sees a man with a musket aimed directly at them. He grabs Pintel's sleeve and pulls him aside. They sprint into the crowd, ducking and dodging; Pintel lags slightly, and stumbles. The wound to his head is bleeding freely, and there's nothing Ragetti can do but hope they'll make it. He keeps a firm hold of Pintel's arm, making sure they're not separated. Everything is chaos: pirates are surging back to the boats, overcome by the French navy, but the fight is not over.

Ragetti sees the dock ahead, sees the sea, amazingly calm under the moon-ridden sky, the _Pearl _anchored a way off, many small rowboats on course for her. Standing atop one of the tall posts used for mooring boats at the dock, stands Jack Sparrow. He looms over the crowd, smile flashing, looking for all the world like a thespian at the close of his greatest play. Ragetti stops dead, staring at his captain over the heads of the crowd, and Pintel stumbles to a halt beside him. Jack's reckless position appears to have stunned most of the crowd, which is probably why he has yet to be shot down. Jack raises his right hand and there, clasped in his bejewelled fingers, is a grenade.

"_Au revoir, _mates!" Jack pulls back his arm and throws the grenade in a wide arc; in the ensuing panic he leaps from his lofty podium, miraculously avoiding all shots aimed at him, and darts away. There is a stampede near the front of the crowd to safety, but Ragetti feels transfixed by the slowly tumbling device. It lands with a soft thud not far from them when realisation hits him like a brick.

"_Pint! Move!" _He flings himself towards Pintel, whose dazed expression has taken in nothing. He collides hard with his friend, effectively knocking him aside, and then a force of strength he has never known before lifts him off his feet; he does not know how far he's falling, or for how long. He seems to be floating rather than falling, drifting numbly through darkness, accompanied by the sound of rushing air and vague knowledge of pain. Then he hits the ground hard. Agony blazes through his head, his body, wiping out all thought, all memory, all other feeling, and then nothing.

* * *

"Rags! Rags, wake up! _Wake up!" _A voice that sounds vaguely like Pintel's drifts in and out of Ragetti's mind, sometimes loud, sometimes soft. "C'mon, you damn fool, wake up! _Rags_!"

Pain so intense he doesn't think he will ever recover. Stop, stop, stop, let it stop… A hand shakes his shoulder, a fresh surge of anguish crashes through him, rending him…

With a jolt and a cry he wakes up. The darkness is soothing, the silence eerie. His heart is beating wildly, his breath short and shallow.

"Jesus, Rags, what was that?" Pintel's voice sounds worried. Ragetti turns his head and sees his friend beside him; he has obviously just been shaken awake. Pintel's eyes are not unfocused but sharp and clear, and the scar that stretches taut over his eyebrow has faded with time. _Just a dream._

"Had a-a n-n-n-nightmare…" he mumbles, sitting up and pushing his hair off his forehead. His face is damp with sweat and his limbs shake; it has been a long time since he'd last had such a bad night.

"I'd never've guessed. Yeh had too much ter drink, is all. Yeh alrigh'?"

"Y-yeah. D-d-didn' mean ter- ter wake yeh up, P-P-Pint…" his voice keeps sticking in his throat, his shaking lips struggle to form words. His breath is still too shallow. Pintel takes hold of his shoulders and studies him carefully.

"It's no matter, mate. C'mon, calm down, awrigh'? It weren' real, yeh fool," his words are harsh, but his voice is calm. "Take deep breaths, yeah?" Ragetti nods dumbly. Pintel sighs, and turns away, muttering to himself. A few minutes later he has settled in his own hammock and seems to fall asleep.

Ragetti remains sitting up, his forehead in his hands, concentrating on taking deep breaths. The remnants of the nightmare still cling to the edges of his memory; he tries to push it away, tries not to dwell on it. It's amazing how vivid that particular nightmare always is, and how factual. Everything from the cocky French lad to Sparrow's grenade.

That grenade… Ragetti rubs unconsciously at his wooden eye, wincing as a splinter cuts into the socket. _Damn Sparrow._ Pintel has never forgiven Jack Sparrow, and Ragetti doubts that he ever will. He himself isn't sure whether to blame the captain: it had been his fault, certainly, but he hadn't done it to hurt Ragetti personally. Sparrow had been desperate: Guadeloupe was notoriously difficult to attack due to the immensity of the French navy and their swift brigs. In fact, if it had not been for the _Pearl'_s legendary turn of speed, Ragetti doubted that they would have made it at all.

He had been unconscious for three days after the attack; he had never been told how close he had come to death, but he had not needed to be told. When he had finally woken up Pintel had completely abandoned all his usual reserve and had hugged him tightly, until he realised that he was hurting the younger man. Ragetti had been traumatised by the loss of his eye: frightened, confused and upset. It had been another few days after he'd woken up before he had enough strength to go up on deck, and even longer before he was any actual use. He had been in a constant state of pain, flinching at anything, even more nervous that usual due to his limited vision. He had lost all sense of perception, which served only to make him more frightened and jumpy.

Pintel had displayed unusual patience whilst Ragetti came to terms with his loss. He went out of his way to help his friend, standing up for him in the face of the cruelty of other's, and making sure that Ragetti was never out of his sight.

Still sitting up, the thin man glances around the forecastle quarters; most men were staying on land for the night, though Bootstrap Bill has returned. He is fast asleep, unaware of his two companions. Pintel lies on his side, his arms curled around his head; his guard is always let down in sleep, making him seem much gentler. Ragetti watches him for a moment, still rubbing his eye thoughtfully. The two hundred pieces of eight compensation that Ragetti had received had not been enough to buy a glass eye, but the wooden eye had been a gift from Pintel. "Until we find ye somethin' proper," he had said. How long that will take Ragetti doesn't know, but he knows he'll get a more comfortable eye eventually.

Slowly he lies down again, pulling the thin blanket around himself, curling his legs up under him for warmth, and eventually falls into a more forgetful sleep.

* * *

_I thought this might be too early to bring in Ragetti's eye, but I had subconsciously plotted how he'd lose it, so I had to write it. It's a tough thing to be sure, but I wanted to tie in a grudge against Jack, which Pintel certainly seems to harbour._

_Sorry if the battle seemed ridiculous. As I said, I've no experience in battle so I've just got my own imagination to go on. Hope it didn't seem too ridiculous._

_Translations:_

"_Votre temps est par-dessus!"- "_Your time is over!"

"_Ne pas être si condamner impudent, mon garcon."- _"Don't be so damn cocky, boy."

_One last thing: Pintel and Ragetti confirmed for Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest. Huzzah!_


	4. Saving Face

_**Author's Note:** Back again! Once again I have attempted to write fighting scenes, and I'm sorry. I am appallingly bad at it, but I try my best. If anyone knows anything about sword fighting, I'd be happy to take on any advice that you have!_

_There are some phrases used here that not everybody may be familiar with, so I'll explain them here:_

_**Keelhauling:** a particularly horrible punishment, where the victim is dragged by rope under the ship from one side to the other. They could easily drown, or at least be cut to ribbons by barnacles and such on the hull._

_**Kissing the gunner's daughter:** another punishment, where the victim is tied over one of the cannons and flogged._

_**Holystone:** Bar of sandstone used to scrub the decks._

_**Bulkhead:** A wall, basically. Except they're not called that on ships._

_I think that's all I used, though I'd be happy to explain anything else. Thanks so much to everybody who reviewed—I really appreciate it!_

_**Disclaimer:** They are borrowed, borrowed without permission, but with every intention of giving them back…_

* * *

_Walk away to save your face,  
You never were a genius.  
Walk away to save your face;  
You let it come between us._

_Walk away to save your face,  
You never were a genius.  
Walk away to save your face,  
You never were, you never were…_

_Yes it's just the second night  
That I would break back nights for you.  
Yes I know you're the jealous type,  
'Cause I'm cursed with second sight so…_

_Walk away to save your face,  
You never were an actor.  
Walk away to save your face,  
Here comes the morning after._

_Walk away to save your face,  
You never were an actor.  
Walk away to save your face,  
You never were, you never were…_

_Yes it's just the second night  
That I would break back nights for you.  
Yes I know you're the jealous type,  
'Cause I'm cursed with second sight so…_

_Third verse same as the first._

_Walk away to save your face,  
You never were a genius.  
Walk away to save your face,  
You let it come between us._

_Yes it's just the second night  
That I would break back nights for you.  
Yes I know you're the jealous type,  
'Cause I'm cursed with second sight so  
Walk away…_

* * *

**

* * *

Chapter Four: Saving Face**

It took all of Pintel's discipline not to slug Twigg right there and then, and he could see the other man struggling to control his own temper, dark eyes flashing. Heat coursed through Pintel, rendering him impervious to restraint or counsel, and the snarls of the other man only curdled his burning anger.

"Curse yeh, yeh confounded bilge-rat!" spat the usually placid Twigg, "Keelhaulin'd be too damn good fer yeh!"

"Yeh wouldn' even be worth the damned effort," Pintel growled maliciously. "Scurvy dog that y'are, Davey Jones'd kick yeh right out; ye're worth less'n a filthy landlubber!"

It would have been much more satisfying to knock his crewmate's teeth out, of course, but to strike another man on board would result in kissing the gunner's daughter, if you were lucky, and both Pintel and Twigg had had enough experience of that. It was only a heavy hand on his shoulder and the looming presence of the Bo'sun behind Twigg that ceased their quarrel.

"Now, mates," the gravely voice of Koehler was accompanied by hot breath on Pintel's ear. "Yeh know yer Articles."

Twigg's gaze met Pintel's, fury still evident in his face. They both knew their Articles, certainly. Captain Sparrow's script, as wandering as his gait, had laid out the rules of the _Black Pearl _clear as day.

"_**ARTICLE VIII.** - None shall strike another on board the ship, but every man's quarrel shall be ended by sword or pistol in this manner. At the word of command from the quartermaster, each man being previously placed back to back, shall turn from eight paces and fire immediately. If any __man do__ not, the quartermaster shall knock the piece out of his hand. If both miss their aim they shall take to their cutlasses, and he that draweth first blood shall be declared the victor."_

Usually, disagreements would be worked out on shore, but with the _Pearl _at least three days away from the nearest port and the tempers of the two pirates raised so high, Koehler, as quartermaster, decided that the matter would be settled there and then.

Ragetti sighed, settling his bony chin in his hands, his elbows bent upon his knees where he sat on the quarterdeck, attempting to keep out of the way. This had been brewing all week, this tension between Twigg and Pintel. Usually they got on fairly well, but both possessed sudden tempers and their snipes had been growing in savagery since they had set out from San Juan eight days ago. Still, he had a feeling of certainty that Pintel would win this encounter: he was an excellent shot, whereas Twigg held a preference for his cutlass.

Koehler set the two men back-to-back, and stepped away. "Eight paces!" he barked. The Bo'sun was watching with a hungry fascination, and from the corner of his eye Ragetti could see Barbossa and Captain Sparrow on the quarter-deck, disdain mingled with interest on each of their faces. After eight paces both Pintel and Twigg froze, backs to each other. There was a short pause, laden with tension, before Koehler's cry of, "Turn!"

Both men spun around, and two shots fired. Ragetti saw Pintel side step, at the same time as Twigg whipped to the left. Both men remained unharmed, although a bullet buried in the mizzenmast at a level of Twigg's head indicated that the pirate's time would have been cut short had he not moved as swiftly as he did. Ragetti felt his heart sinking: this meant cutlasses. Not that Pintel was inept with a cutlass; he was, in fact, a dab hand. Unfortunately, Twigg was renowned for his quickness of foot, which gave him an immediate advantage over his heavier counterpart.

As Pintel drew his weapon, his gaze fell on Ragetti. His quirk of an eyebrow was reassuring, though Ragetti knew that ultimately the blame for this fight with Twigg fell entirely on his own shoulders. Had he not been so shortsighted… but he did not doubt that his friend would give him his fair share of grief later on.

Koehler and the Bo'sun retreated from the gun-deck to join Barbossa and Jack Sparrow, as well as a few other curious crewmembers. The two pirates left on the gun-deck squared up to one another, cutlasses resting together in an accepted pre-fight position. Pintel could feel his nerves wound tight, though his hand was steady. The silence seemed to stretch on, until upon Koehler's order it snapped as an over-taut rope. The sharp, staccato rings of metal upon metal rang out over the ship, and Pintel kept his eyes fixed firmly upon Twigg's face. No glimmer, no hint of wariness. _Cocky bastard_. The shorter pirate could feel already that he was at a disadvantage: his steps were not as sure, not as light as those of his counterpart, and it was showing. He was constantly parrying, reflecting the sharp edge of Twigg's weapon, whilst never getting the chance to employ his own.

They moved full-circle again, before Twigg lunged, trying to catch Pintel off-guard. Unfortunately for him, better swordsman though he was, his opponent's grounded logic prepared him for sudden attacks, and his blade was deflected. Taking advantage of Twigg's momentary pause, Pintel leapt forward, weapon thrusting for Twigg's chest, but the other man recovered in the nick of time. Pintel then found himself backing away in an attempt to ward off Twigg's constant attack; the clashing of their weapons becoming faster and faster, and Pintel could feel himself struggling to keep up with the beat. He was almost backed against the bulkhead of the gun- and quarterdeck's, and in a desperate attempt not to be blocked in he parried more forcefully against Twigg's cutlass, and sought an attack; the plan worked, and he managed to back the other pirate into the open. All he had to do was draw blood, but Twigg was too good a swordsman to allow Pintel's weapon anywhere near his body, and his attacks were becoming simply more fast and vicious.

_Just let 'im win, _the logical part of Pintel's mind urged. _It's on'y one argument. Jus' let yer guard down and let 'im win. 'E's 'ardly goin' ter run yeh through. _

_Don' be daft. _That was his pride, blasted thing. _After the way that bastard's been?'E deserves ev'rythin' yeh throw at 'im. _

Pintel blocked out his warring conscience and tried to focus fully on the fight, on the flashing metal, on Twigg's grim face, on the beats of their struggle: one, two, three, one two three… it was getting faster, still. The _Pearl _rolled with the ocean; her pitching decks would have given less-experienced seamen an extra disadvantage but the sea legs and bare-feet of the warring pirates meant that this was barely an issue. Still, Pintel knew that he was in trouble when Twigg allowed him a chance to recover. The other man knew exactly what he was doing, and he was not afraid to let his confidence show, nor to re-double his attack. Pintel began to wish that he had tied his long hair back; it was amazing how much of a shortcoming it was in the high breeze that was whipping up.

Through his parries the pirate began to look for weaknesses in his opponent. He had never fought Twigg before, and had previously known nothing of his style. It soon became clear, however, that though his confidence was making his assaults faster, he was beginning to leave his left-side open for attack. A thought began to formulate in Pintel's mind: Ragetti was a left-handed swordsman, and the only times he beat Pintel in a fight… _that was it_. Ready to throw caution to the winds, the heavy-set man struggled to keep pace with the nimble Twigg, finally setting his new plan into action with a more forcible parry. Twigg was knocked back on his heels, and Pintel used that split-moment to switch his cutlass to his left-hand. This hand was not as sure as his right, but it might just be enough… Twigg leapt in for a new attack, but registered too late what his rival had done. Pintel whipped his blade upwards, catching it on the grimy cloth of Twigg's shirt and, barely able to believe that it had worked, he saw the telltale sign of red blood seeping through the dirty yellow material. Twigg felt it and backed away, dropping his arm to his side. Pintel followed suit, feeling exhausted.

Nothing more was said, though Twigg met Pintel's eyes and the anger had vanished. It had been a fair fight, and nothing more could be done. A glimmer of good-humour passed over Twigg's face before he turned and left for the main deck. Pintel just stood and watched him go, dimly registering the heaviness in his limbs. Koehler shoved roughly past his shoulder as he followed Twigg, acknowledging Pintel only with a grunt. Too used to this to care, and without even bothering to sheath his cutlass Pintel climbed slowly up onto the quarterdeck, to be immediately handed a holystone by the Bo'sun. Pintel glanced at the captain and saw a glimmer of… was that admiration?

"Sly trick there, Master Pintel." Jack's golden grin flashed momentarily in his direction. "Waitin' fer the opportune moment, was it?" Well, it certainly was not admiration. The captain seemed to approve though, which was something. Pintel glanced at Ragetti, and saw that his friend also had a holystone clasped in his thin fingers. Together they wandered back to the main deck to start scrubbing, not exchanging a word.

* * *

Ragetti chewed on his lip so hard that he became very close to biting through it. He risked a glance over at Pintel, whose scrubbing had begun short and brusque, but was now drifting into a vague and non-committal action. His gaze, which had previously been centred on the deck as though all the wooden planks had personally offended him, was now distant, the blue eyes seeming almost clouded over. Ragetti decided to try his luck.

"Pint?"

"What?" Despite the change in his countenance, Pintel's annoyance with Ragetti had not been displaced. It was sink or swim, now.

"'m sorry, Pinters." Ragetti kept his voice quiet, and did not look into his friend's face. Pintel was silent, though Ragetti could feel his glare. "I d-d-dunno what else t-ter say…" Damn that bloody stammer! He bit his lip again, trying to relax and stop the contraction of his throat. He did not trust his voice for a while, knowing that as soon as he tried to speak his words would stick in his throat, or on his tongue, rendering him practically incomprehensible.

"Yeh don' 'ave ter say anythin'." Pintel sat back on his heels, his shoulders slumped. "I'd like ter know why yeh was so bothered, though."

"I-I-I dunno meself," Ragetti finally managed to say. "I d-dunno, Pint. I know it was stupid—"

"Damn right, it was," Pintel growled. "Christ, Rags, yeh didn' give me any credit at all, did yeh?" Ragetti remained silent, though guilt shadowed his face. "Why the hell would I want ter be mates with them, Ragetti?"

The quiet sternness of Pintel's voice shook Ragetti, as did his use of Ragetti's full name. "Dunno. I guess I figured I annoyed yeh too much…" he trailed off, feeling miserable.

"Yeh _do _annoy me too much." Pintel said. "But when you make me feel like killin' yeh, I don' actually want ter. 'alf the time I'd like ter smash their damn faces in."

"Oh."

"_Oh," _Pintel mimicked, though his tone was not cruel.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the four bells, marking the second hour after noon. Ragetti tried in vain to find something to say, but he could sense already that no word would pass his lips; he was just too tense. Eventually, Pintel sighed.

"Look, Raggers, yer me mate, so I ain't gonna fight with yeh. I done enough fightin' with people this past week, an' I'm done tired of it."

Ragetti did not answer. Hot guilt was prickling his skin; Pintel was a typically intolerant man, and this sudden lenience on his behalf only made Ragetti feel worse. He was not even sure how this whole situation had come about: Pintel's sudden friendship with Twigg had been what had sparked the disagreement (if it could be called friendship: that was a rarity with pirates), but there had been something brewing under the surface beforehand. A tension between the two pirates had been making them both irritable for the past few weeks; Pintel had sniped at Ragetti far more often than usual, which had turned Ragetti into even more of a fumbling mess than he was customarily.

Looking back, Ragetti decided that they had both most likely been suffering from cabin fever. They were rarely out of one another's company, and he supposed that it was only natural to finally become exhausted of a person. He felt now, though, as he did after a storm: the fresh sharpness in the air, and the sense of picking up the pieces.

"Yeh know too much fer me ter fall out with yeh, Pinters."

Pintel laughed, and swiped Ragetti's head. "Sometimes I think I know more about yeh'n I want ter."

Ragetti grinned, giving his friend a shy glance. "Yeh ain't mad at me?"

"Not right now. I might change me mind, though." A literal ear-to-ear grin removed any edge his words may have had. Silence descended between them once more, the only sounds those of the _Pearl _cutting through the ocean, and Jack Sparrow's rambling, off-key singing floating down from helm.

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I will be going into more detail about Pintel and Ragetti's fall-out soon, I promise. This story will be taking on some semblance of structure soon enough! I will try to get chapter five up soon, but then there may be a break, since I'm starting University this autumn and I don' t know how soon I will be able to get into writing again.__Special thanks go to **Dancing Namek **for recommending this story and "Feeling" for the C2, "The Best of Pirates of the Caribbean". I have only just noticed and I am very honoured, as is Fran, lovely author of "Feeling"._


	5. Can't Rely On Anything

_**Author's Note:** Whew! Uni is proving fun so far, though hard work, of course. This chapter has been written in bits and pieces-- a paragraph every now and again, which was then revised a couple of weeks later… but it's finally done. Finally being the operative word!_

_**Disclaimer:** They are borrowed, borrowed without permission, but with every intention of giving them back…_

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_

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Beauty lies inside the eye of another youthful dream  
That doesn't sell it's soul for self-esteem  
That's not plasticine  
Beauty lies inside desire and every wayward heart redeemed  
That doesn't sell it's soul for self-esteem  
That's not plasticine_

Don't forget to be the way you are

_Don't forget to be the way you are _

The only thing you can rely on is that you can't rely on anything  
Don't go and sell your soul for self-esteem  
Don't be plasticine

Don't forget to be the way you are  
And don't forget to be the way you are  
The way you are...

_--Plasticine_

**Chapter Five: Can't Rely On Anything**

No one ever denied that life was hard on board ship. No one really mentioned it, but they didn't deny it, and those were completely different things. It didn't do to complain about your conditions, especially when it came to piracy: pirates were a tough breed. Inhumanly so. It was an unspoken law that when it came to discomfort, to sickness, you either held your tongue or risked losing it.

There was one thing that piracy had in favour over merchant ships, or the Navy: fairness. Equal shares, democracy, no unjust punishments… and oftentimes, that made the extra difficulties all the more bearable. It was a commonplace fact, though, that any hard times were easier to handle when you had volunteered to be in the situation in the first place. When you had been forced into brutal circumstances… well, it was sometimes difficult to see why many sailors were so loyal.

_The Creeping Giant_'s captain, despite having a secular inability to understand fashion and a ship which warranted disownment rather than pride, was unmerciful in his attainment of crew members. Pintel, of course, had volunteered his services mere days after leaving Sarendo and _Sun Arise, _and had thus rarely experienced the vicious side of Captain Sansome's nature. Ragetti, on the other hand, had started out with no reason to bear any love for the wooden world or the people who inhabited it. Pintel still occasionally felt stirrings of sympathy for his friend, but they were few and far between, as whenever he thought about that time he found himself preoccupied with the selfish thoughts that his loneliness had at last been dispelled.

Not that it had been comradeship at first sight, of course. The_ Giant _had been ready to weigh anchor all morning, and Pintel was moody, impatient to move off from the Southern Barbados port. The staccato barks of the leftenant had permeated the bustling chatter of the crew, joined by the dull clinks and drags of chains.

"Get along, there! Move, lads, by the grace of God, _move_!"

Everybody's attention was on the three men who had just come aboard with the leftenant and Captain Sansome. Pintel turned away from the mist-covered horizon and leant back on the ship's railing, propping his elbows against it and resting on his heels. Through a veil of indifference he studied the three men as Sansome read the articles, setting down the law and punishments.

The first man was big, broad and battered. A cloth cap sat on his thick curly hair as he stared over Sansome's head, his face set and grim, fury written in the strong line of his jaw. His fists were clenched, his burly shoulders set back in a proud stance-- forced into another life he may have been, but he wasn't going to go quietly.

Nor, for that matter, was the second man. A tall Hispanic man, whose face was impassive but for the dark eyes which betrayed his curdling anger. As Sansome spoke, he crossed his newly unshackled arms; a slow, deliberate movement, and an unspoken challenge. Pintel allowed the barest sneer to flicker over his face: this next journey was going to be _interesting._

The third man let down the pattern. He could barely be considered a man-- just a boy, really. Not that anyone thought anything of that; it was common for a lad to join a crew at only eight or nine, let-alone sixteen. This boy was chewing his lip, worried eyes peering through a mop of unruly blond hair. He had a wiry build, and looked under-fed; this appearance was only exacerbated by the slump to his thin shoulders, the way they curved about him almost protectively, and the nervous fretting of his hands.

_So, two tough soldiers and a terrified waif. Well-chosen. _Pintel gave an inward snort. A sorry lot to join the previous sorry lot. With a roll of his eyes he turned back to the horizon, though the early morning mist gathered over the surface of the water made it difficult to determine where ocean became sky.

"Master Pintel!" _Shit. Don' even think about involvin' me…_

"Aye, sir?"

Sansome's hands were on his hips, watching Pintel as though sizing him up. Pintel stood up straight, carefully levelling his gaze some six inches to the left of Sansome's left ear. "I want you to look after this one," he jerked his head behind him, indicating the boy. "Show him how things are done." He paused, the faintest glimmer of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "No complaints, sir, or it's the lash for you." _Right. No complaints._

_Bastard._

"Aye, sir." Sansome nodded at Pintel's impassive agreement, and turned on his heel. The lad shuffled uncomfortably, looking nowhere higher than the wooden decks.

"What's yer name?"

"R-R-Ragetti." _Brilliant. One that can' talk._

"You Italian?" Sansome hadn't said anything about making the lad feel _welcome. _Pintel was rather enjoying the new recruit's nervous squirming.

"Um, yes. Half."

"Right. What's the other half?" Pintel kept his voice brisk-- the questions were not asked out of genuine interest, but more out of a curiosity as to just how far Ragetti could be pushed.

"English." _Christ_. _What a mix. _

Neither spoke for a while. Pintel felt slightly amused that Ragetti hadn't even asked for his name. Though Sansome had probably introduced him. Probably warned Ragetti that he was a 'difficult bugger' (as he was often known) as well.

"I don' bite, lad." Ragetti glanced up at him, and Pintel got a good look at his face for the first time: his cheeks were hollowed, his nose almost over-long, and his blue eyes wide and scared. Pintel caved slightly-- he had to admit that it must be daunting, suddenly being dragged into this whole new existence. Though Ragetti had barely seen the start of it.

"I'm Pintel," he offered, allowing something close to a smile. Ragetti actually met his gaze, considering him.

"W-w-where are _y-you _fr-from?" _Cheeky bastard! _Pintel gave a harsh bark of laughter and Ragetti flinched slightly, though an uncertain smile crept over his features. Maybe the lad wasn't that much of a pushover after all.

"I'm French," Pintel said, pushing himself off the bulkhead once again. He grabbed Ragetti's shoulder, turned him around, and marched him off down the deck. "Don' hold that agains' me, though."

* * *

_Despite his mixed heritage, Ragetti had been born and brought up in the Caribbean and, until becoming a sailor, had never left the island of Barbados. His father, a proud Italian man, had come to the Caribbean during the War of the Spanish Succession as part of Spain's colonization in the islands. During a brief respite on land he had met Ragetti's mother, a poor woman recently arrived in Barbados from England. _

_Guido Ragetti was a merchant sailor, and as such was away from home for long periods of time, and Ragetti knew very little of him; brief memories of a man quick to laugh and scold, of whom he was both admiring and frightened. He had always brought back gifts for Ragetti and his older brother, Carlos: musical instruments, wooden toys crudely carved. Carlos was five years older than Ragetti, and treated his little brother with disdain, and so Ragetti spent most of his time with a street gang._

_The family lived in the poor area of Holetown, the English settlement, near to the Southern ports. They were not so poor as to be in poverty, but still their lives were meagre. Sarah Ragetti was a house proud woman, who believed in keeping 'standards'; as far as Ragetti was concerned, this meant that his clothes had to be clean and neatly mended, and that he had to learn to read and write. She despaired constantly over his habit of 'rolling around in the dust', as though he were some sort of naughty pet. The children of the area all belonged to gangs, which none of the adults understood-- they did not see the importance involved in such warfare._

_Nobody in these gangs were known by their forenames; somehow an importance was gleaned by dismissing Christian names. Ragetti learnt dirty fighting in the streets, the rules of which were to use anything to stop the other one winning. He had always been the smallest, skinniest and quietest, but he had won a fair few fights through sheer lack of reserve: he kicked, scratched, elbowed and even bit his way to victory, with all the desperation and quickness of a cat. At home, he was always scolded for fighting:_

"_Honestly, Giorgio, how many times do I have to tell you? This is unbecoming behaviour, and I expect better!" What 'better' pertained to he had never been told. When he came home bruised and battered, he would have to do extra reading and writing before supper. Not that he minded much; he enjoyed letters._

_When he was ten years old this life, which had a certain idyll to it, was forcefully interrupted by a new arrival. Sam Baker was an older boy, hardened in a way beyond that of the street gang children; he was tanner's apprentice, but he spent little time doing his duties. Nobody knew the full truth, but it was widely known that Baker had been rescued from pirates, whose company he had been in for several months, and brought to Barbados to learn a proper trade._

"_That poor boy!" Sarah Ragetti had exclaimed when Carlos brought the subject up over supper one evening. "Imagine how relieved he must have been to have been rescued from those evil scoundrels. At least he'll be able to pick up his life now." Baker hardly portrayed himself as a victim, though, boasting about his time with the pirates and the things he had seen-- Ragetti was unsure about believing him, but the stories had been good. Fights and brawls, a stern captain and rowdy crew, storming ports with blasting cannons, hand-to-hand fighting aboard deck… it was the sort of thing he had read about in books. _

_Baker was certainly vicious enough to be pirate; he had broken the arm of the oldest boy in the Tanner Street gang, and had somehow asserted himself as their leader. However, his dominion was not one focused on waging war on the other gangs, but on gaining more and more power over his group. Ragetti, as the smallest and youngest, was his especial victim. _

_It had started off with vague taunts about his speech impediment, cruel laughing when this worsened the stammering, and gradually Ragetti learnt to submit, to keep his head down and do as he was told, or risk a beating. These beatings were not the same as fights, wherein you began on equal footing, but instead began with threats, which the other boys took to joining in with-- anything to gain popularity with Baker-- and ended, always, in violence. Ragetti tried secluding himself, but Baker took to seeking him out, seemingly too addicted to the power he held over Ragetti to leave him alone._

_A year later, the small family was shaken by the arrival of a simple telegram. Guido Ragetti was dead, killed in a skirmish with Spanish privateers. A silence descended on the small house; Sarah remained in her bedroom, locked in her own despair and grief. The two boys were quiet, uncertain, filled with a distant kind of sadness and worry for their mother. Only months later, Carlos had announced that he was going to join a merchant ship. Sarah did not try to stop him; they needed the income, and Carlos was set on the idea. Apart from the money they received and the occasional letter, Ragetti never heard from his older brother again._

* * *

It had been a fairly friendly start, all things considered, but there was a difference between a distant friendliness and actual friendship: that had taken time. Then, after four more years aboard _The Creeping Giant, _things had taken a turn for the much, much worse.

Two days into a crossing from Guadeloupe to Tortuga, _The Creeping Giant _had received a cannonball over the bowsprit, preceded by a cry of, _"Enemy fire! The French are attacking!" _Pintel and Ragetti had manned their cannon until the last, but the fight had been lost almost before it had begun: the enemy ship had been lined up for a broadside before they had even gotten to the gun deck. Inwardly cursing Francis, whose nonchalance on watch was now costing them dearly, Pintel lit up their cannon and stood back as she blasted off. Their shot found its mark in _Le_ _Jubilance'_s hull, but it was a mere bruise compared to the damage done to the _Giant; _everybody on board could feel how low she was listing.

It was over as soon as it had begun. The gunners were practically dragged up on deck, where they first met Captain Leonard, a tall, imposing man who, it seemed, was the carrier of a Letter of Marque from the King, and as such was now taking property of the _Creeping Giant. _He set his First Mate to captain the _Giant _back to Guadeloupe for necessary repairs-- she would require some emergency work there and then of course, but unless a major storm hit she should otherwise remain seaworthy until she was back in port. Then Leonard chose members of the _Giant'_s crew to join his own, far more efficient, men. Pintel and Ragetti were among those to board _Le Jubilance._

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Dun dun duuuuuuuuuuun. I can't believe how long it's been since I've updated this! I had some teething troubles with Ragetti's backstory, and I'm still not entirely sure whether the pacing is right. Please let me know, as I'll no doubt be revising this at some point. Cheers!_


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